


under the shitty neon lights i fell for you

by ronnieboo



Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arcades, F/F, First Dates, Flirting, Fluff, Greasy Food, Guitar Hero - Freeform, It rains at the worst possible moment, Mentions of Perfuma, Motorcycles, Probably bad flirting, Rain, Romance, Slow Burn, catradora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-14 17:59:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17513264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronnieboo/pseuds/ronnieboo
Summary: “This is our last chip,” Catra announces, holding the token like it's the golden chalice. “Where shall we spend it?”“The whack-a-mole machine?”“Too cliché, Adora.” Catra rolls her eyes. “Think bigger, smarter,” She flips the coin between her fingers, eyes the arcade. “Bingo.”{or; Catra and Adora´s first date}





	under the shitty neon lights i fell for you

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little something i wrote for a catradora twitter au i´m making, which you can find at @sapphicarmen
> 
> since it became a tad too long i decided to post it, and i hope you like it!!

She's nervous, obviously. Pacing around, murmuring nonsense.

Does she even have the  _ right _ to be nervous? 

Her room has become a warzone: clothes lay around in messy piles all over the floor, her bed, her nightstand; and really, Adora´s never been the type to  _ worry _ about  daily dress-up etiquette, much less about a stupid outfit for a date. 

Gods above, this wasn't any different from their silly outings, like that one time they skipped class and had a lovely picnic at Central Plaza —back then it was just a strip or grass and trees and two park benches— or the time they went stargazing to the beach during their senior year in highschool. They´d brought blankets and scented candles to “set the mood” for a perfect night out. They ate leftover chinese and drank a few cans of beer, and Adora can clearly remember how the drunk-red in Catra´s cheeks made her freckles stand out more than usual, like constellations during a blood moon. She —

_ Oh _ . 

Had it always been there? The weird crawling in her gut —butterflies, apparently—disguised as the everyday sense of the best-friend normalcy? Adora knows  _ almost _ everything about Catra. Knows that she absentmindedly chews on her nails when she gets nervous and paints them jet-black so no one will notice. Knows that she's more of an artist than a secret mafia boss, and that she used to go to the school rooftop to draw, and that she stashes her artwork somewhere in her room. Knows that she only eats vegetables if she can't  _ see _ them, and that she once made a fake tinder account where she pretended to be a cat. It was all so  _ normal _ that Adora never stopped to think how endearing she finds it when her best friend gets flustered about her drawings, or that as much as she used to complain about it she makes sure the greens and the carrots are not on plain sight. It's all muscle memory. 

_ And you just lost ten minutes to get ready, Adora.  _

It's Perfuma´s fault. What she'd told her this morning, right before she ran off to Introduction to Economy—it keeps nagging her. Something about first times being special because you can't repeat them. Something about the body being unable to recreate the same amount of steps and make the heart beat at the same frequency. That the sky wouldn't shine the same sea-blue, the wind would carry a different smell and the flowers would be daisies instead of roses. She had told her that the thirtieth time could be exactly the same as the second, but never the first. Never the same whisper-touch. Never the same words. 

Who was Adora to go against such a perfectly sound, perfectly  _ romantic  _ logic?

Whatever. She settles for a white blouse, leaving but a strip of skin unbuttoned, an old pair of jeans cuffed at the bottom and her beige leather boots. Classy, but not too obviously chosen by a pinterest board. Adora can't really remember the last time she wore her hair down—She-ra fashion and sleeping don't count—so ponytail it is. Plus, she doesn't want to look like she's trying too hard. Because she's most definitely  _ not _ . 

She's breezing through this. 

Makeup isn't really her  _ thing _ ; neither is jewelry, but perhaps some eyeliner and her only Nice Pair of earrings will do the trick. What else could she need? Catra said it was a surprise, and for all she knows they could be going to a skating rink and she's not wearing the appropriate socks. The blouse is a little too thin, and even though she fares well in the cold weather she decides to fold an extra sweater in her bag with her purse, keys and emergency sewing kit (Bow´s idea, not hers). Maybe she'll need a poncho, just in case— _ breathe, Adora _ . This is Catra, best friend and certified troublemaker. The only company she could ever need, and they're going on a long overdue date, honestly, because Adora is beginning to realize “better whole” sounds a little bit better than just plain old “best friend”. 

Her phone lights up. She smiles. 

Once she's done turning all the lights off and making sure the oven will not mysteriously set itself on fire, Adora finds herself speeding down the stairs after three minutes of waiting for the elevator. She crosses the main hallway in a hurry and—wow. 

The sun has just begun its descent, bathing the sky in watercolor hues of orange, pink and violet; and the cascading of colors over Catra´s silhouette makes her look nothing short of ethereal. As much as Adora has always imagined Catra in a sort of “blood-red and thick smoke” aesthetic, she has to admit the polaroid-like effect of the approaching golden hour suits her even better. She's never seen Catra look this… soft. A half-smile in the tilt of her lips, twirling her fingers, arching an eyebrow when she sees Adora trot the rest of the way, until they're barely inches apart, barely touching. Her lips curl into a smirk. 

Familiar, somehow; like she's seen it somewhere else. 

“Hey Adora,” Catra purrs, low and throaty, and  _ wow. _ Adora´s heard this line at least a hundred times; in the morning, at parties, at ungodly hours. But it's never been like  _ this _ . “Ready?” 

She offers her arm. 

“Ready as I'll ever be,” She says, and instead of taking her arm, Adora grabs her hand and twines their fingers together. Catra sputters, the tips of her ears already dotted with red. “Where are you taking me?”

Catra shrugs, playful, and leads them to her parked motorcycle. She motions for Adora to hop in first, and,  _ well _ . Motorcycles aren't her favorite mode of transportation, probably because she can't drive them and therefore is not in control. She'd made a show of loudly complaining when Catra wasted— _ spent _ — her savings on this two-wheeled hazard. And because Catra  _ knows _ not a second goes by before she's fastening a helmet over her head, fussing over the tight updo that nearly doesn't let it fit. They really do know each other like the back of their hands. 

“Don't worry, this is perfectly safe,” Catra assures her, and pats the leather seat. “I think.” 

“Catra!” She tries to swat her arm, but it's no use. Catra sidesteps, landing a breath away from Adora´s reach. “Fine. Let's go.” 

Catra hops in front of her and revs the engine. Adora has no choice but to wrap her arms tightly around Catra´s waist—not like she'd planned anything different, but the suddenness of the engine roaring to life nearly sends her jumping ten feet into the air. She yelps, much to Catra´s interest; a sound she'd like to store for later, and then they're off at ungodly speeds down the avenue, the wind whistling in her ear. Adora can't see much through the dark tinted helmet; only blurred lights and wild,  _ beautiful _ curls tickling her neck and  _ yes _ , maybe the speed does scare her a little bit, but the feel of Catra´s leather jacket and her hearty laughter are more than enough to make her think,  _ yeah, I could get used to this _ . 

They arrive maybe ten, fifteen minutes later, but that might have been because Catra sped by one or two red lights. She's a little dizzy from the ride, so Adora leans against Catra´s shoulder for balance and doesn't miss the way her fingers wrap ever so softly against her waist. 

“Aaaaand…” Catra wiggles her eyebrows. “We're here!” 

Adora surveys her surroundings and works overtime to suppress a smile. The arcade looks exactly as she remembered it; a square building two stories tall, outer walls spray painted with graffiti and outdated 80´s music blasting from the speakers. However, it no longer smells like cigarettes and the hot pink neon sign reading  _ Pinball _ —the arcade´s name— is now orange. The lights don't flicker the way they used to, and they don't have the weird guy dressed up as a racoon greeting the visitors at the front door. She loves it. 

“Okay, the silence is freaking me out,” Catra says. She waves a hand in front of Adora´s face, snapping her out of her trance. “What are you thinking?” 

“The last time I came here I was probably ten,” Adora answers. She takes a step forward. 

“And you cried all the way home because you didn't win enough tickets for the big hippo plushie.”

Adora whirls around, wide-eyed. “You remember?” 

“Your ugly crying face? Hell yes,” She pokes her tongue out and winks, but then her expression softens  _ just so _ , chocolate-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. Catra is all toughness and sharp angles, but right now she's ten and daring her to go down the slide on her belly. “Let's call this a cinematic parallel, then. Just for us.” 

Adora´s not used to the feeling of her cheeks burning, especially not  _ for _ someone, and since she's so  _ pale _ red doesn't even begin to cover it. She probably looks like a tomato. Is there a shade deeper than tomato-red? 

“When did you become so smooth?” She breathes. 

“I've always been this smooth, Adora,” Catra clarifies. “You just never got to see me in action,” She winks. “But now you do.”

She guides them inside with a tug of her hand, dragging her into a run until they reach the doors. Catra´s fingers curl around Adora´s wrist like they've always belonged there. Adora smiles and willingly follows along. Outside she could feel the chill of the looming winter, but inside? The smell of sweaty kids and people parading around everywhere makes the heat stick to her skin like a second layer of, well, weird undesirable  _ yuck.  _ She guesses the heaters are in full blast mode, as if the fifty-something annoying children each with a set of parents were not enough to drive a cold-weather person insane. Adora scrunches her nose in disgust, and Catra lets out her signature, booming laughter reserved for moments like  _ these _ , she'd told her once. Something about her suddenly becoming a five year old. 

“Oh, please,” Adora shakes her head. Truth be told, she's also fighting the urge to join her best friend in a fit of giggles. “You can't stand this any more than I do.” 

“Hm? Yeah, it  _ is _ pretty hot in here. Didn't see that coming, huh,” Catra admits, but there´s something off about the way she says it, eyes hooded— “But you know what? I think it's just us. Or  _ you _ , for that matter. Did I tell you how—” She drags her feet forward, lazy and cat-like, until her fingers rest just below Adora´s chin. “ _ Gorgeous _ you look tonight? Because you do.” 

“I,” Adora sputters, regretting her sudden lack of witty comebacks. “Am going to destroy you at the basketball hoops.” 

Catra raises an eyebrow, but says nothing in return. Instead, she clears the way for Adora to step forward. “After you, princess.” 

They receive the ultraviolet-ink numbered stamp in the back on their wrists and are welcomed inside by a girl in a ponytail wearing the trademark raccoon onesie. It feels like the  _ actual  _ first step into what will hopefully be the night of their lives. Catra weaves them through the crowd of screaming children, who step back and stare in awe at the “big mean sister”. Scary best friends do come with perks, but Adora shoots some apologetic smiles here and there to the little kids. They scamper off, and Catra leaves her standing there and goes back to get them some tokens. 

The basketball game is empty, waiting for them. There´s no waiting line, not even a crowd of hormonal, over-competitive fifteen year olds. Catra hands her a bag of golden chips; Adora raises a questioning eyebrow. If Catra bought these, then Adora´s supposed to pay for the food, right? Isn't that how dates work? Is this the meaning of  _ my treat _ ? Adora shakes it off and joins Catra, who´s already slipping in a coin to start the game. She's quick to do the same, readying her stance; feet apart, back straightened. Catra blows her kisses, very obviously trying to distract her. A voice calls  _ ready, set, go! _ And the game begins to the sound of a fake cheering audience.

She—okay. Maybe there  _ was _ a reason Adora chose this game first. Even though Catra has already scored two baskets, whooping and whistling, Adora makes up for it twice as fast, making a show of huffing and wiping sweat from her forehead like a true star player. Whenever she senses Catra´s eyes boring into her she makes sure to bare her muscles and dunk a triple. This is uncharted territory, honestly; Adora has never felt the need to  _ show off _ , not to the best friend who's seen her trip on her own shoelaces while trying to manage a decent pass during freshman year. However, today is decidedly  _ different _ . In the two, three extra seconds that Catra spends very openly  _ staring _ Adora creates a scoring gap too big to recover from, and when the countdown reaches the  _ ten, nine, eight! _ And each basket is worth double the points, she scores an effortless one-handed basket.

She breaks a new record. 

“Well,  _ damn _ , ´Dora,” Catra hoots, eyeing the pool of tickets at Adora´s feet. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind Adora´s ear. “I admit defeat,” Then, a whisper— “For  _ now _ .” 

She could get used to this.

“It's on.” 

They go to the racing cars, then the motorcycles. Catra dominates both, much to Adora´s dismay, but the table hockey is practically a one-sided dispute, and after beating Catra a random bystander (a greasy dude with an  _ Etheria Lions _ t-shirt and a terrible undercut) demanded a match against him. Adora wins to a roaring crowd and dedicates her victory to Catra and revels in the sight of her freckled face turning various shades of crimson in a split second. The rest of the evening goes by in a blur of shitty arcade lighting, whining kids and a series of competitions; who can win more tickets, who can get the speed record, how far you can throw the ball—you name it. And in the thrill of it all she always finds Catra standing just a breath away; smiling, taunting her, dragging her to the next game. 

Admittedly, it takes her a while to find the line between  _ friends _ and  _ something more _ , because they've always been like this, more or less. Competitive, pushing each other to the limits, laughing when the other one fails only to pick them up afterwards. And maybe it's the too-long glance she spares Catra´s way as she scratches the back of her neck while reading the game´s instructions, or the way she misses the feel of her calloused hands on her skin when it  _ snaps _ . Well, not quite as poetic, but it's enough for Adora to be ready to leave the routine-driven “just bestests of friends” life behind.  _ Maybe _ . 

Just as she's about to muster the courage to go  _ beyond _ , Catra is already yanking her somewhere else. The thing is: the way her eyes crinkle at the corners and how her smile is more unbothered joy than dangerous smirking, Adora feels complete. So she follows. Nothing tops getting to feel eight again with your best-maybe-more-friend. 

“This is our last chip,” Catra announces, holding the token like it's the golden chalice. “Where shall we spend it?” 

“The whack-a-mole machine?” 

“Too cliché, Adora.” Catra rolls her eyes. “Think bigger, smarter,” She flips the coin between her fingers, eyes the arcade. “Bingo.” 

It only makes sense that their first and last games of the night are empty. The only thing that's missing is the signature movie-style beacon shining white, fluorescent light over the Guitar Hero to mark it as a Very Important spot. The beginning of the end. Adora rolls her eyes.

“And this is not cliché?” Adora snaps back, petulant, and lets out a huff. She crosses her arms. “I'm starting to think you have something against my very professional choices.” 

“Me? How can you think that!” Catra brings a hand to her chest, clutching the fabric, and falls to her knees. “You wound me. Offend me! How dare you  _ believe _ that  _ I _ would do such a thing! Betrayal!”

“Don't be so dramatic,” She takes the chip from Catra´s hand and slips it inside the game. It lights up in the song selection screen. “Okay, then.  _ Impress _ me.” 

They don't even own a guitar hero back home, but  _ damn _ Catra is  _ good _ . Not “rookie, beginner´s luck” kind of good, gods no. Right of the bat she picks the expert difficulty, and,  _ well _ , Adora doesn't know much about rock songs, but knows  _ enough _ to be able to tell that  _ through the fire and flames _ —was that the name? It was kinda cool for a She-ra theme song—is not an easy, stroll through the meadow kind of choice. It's a pretty hypnotic experience; to see Catra practically  _ destroying _ the game with her mad skills. Adora almost wishes they still had a couple extra chips. 

She does miss a few notes, most likely because Catra pries her eyes away from the screen for a second too long to make sure Adora´s still watching—which she  _ is _ , always. However, those three seconds cost Catra a perfect score, but it doesn't  _ matter _ because Adora  _ is _ impressed; whooping and cheering and flinging her arms around Catra´s neck for a hug. 

“That was so good!” She says. “Didn't know you were a secret guitar hero _ ine _ .” 

“You know. I had to show off to the pretty lady,” Catra gives her a lopsided smile. “Entrapta has the game. We always have tournaments when we stay over.” She eyes the game. “Now,  _ she's _ a real star player.” 

“Think we should get one?” Adora muses, actually considering the idea. 

“Yeah, sure,” Catra raises an eyebrow. “Because we're  _ loaded _ . The richest, broke college students in Etheria.”

“Okay, I get it,” She cuts her off, pouts. “It was just a thought.” 

“Don't,  _ please _ ,” Catra pleads. “You know I hate the pouty thing!” 

She didn't know. 

Okay, maybe she  _ did _ , but know she's beginning to realize that said hatred might stem from a particularly unexpected source. Could  _ pouting _ be her new weapon—a discovery—to fight off Catra´s suave advances? Adora stores the information for later use. 

“How about you go get us some pizzas, and I'll think about it, yeah?” 

Catra gives her the stink eye, but turns around and walks away nonetheless, course set for the lady in purple uniform taking orders. Then she sees it; the pink, swollen scar on her shoulder, right next to the red straps of Catra´s red crop top. It's beginning to fade at the top, but it is also very obviously  _ fresh _ , and it stirs something in Adora´s memory—a rooftop chase. But it couldn´t be, because that was  _ She-ra _ and she was trying to catch her  _ enemy _ . What kind of coincidence could this be? Was Fright aiming for her best friend? No—that means she  _ knows _ about She-ra´s civilian identity. Impossible.

She bites her lip and tastes blood. 

“Catra,” She calls, just to make sure. Catra stops midtrack, craning her neck to face her with a questioning look on her face. “How did you get this?”

Adora runs a finger down the scar. Catra tenses under her touch. 

“I, uh,” Catra stammers. “Fell. At uni. Didn't tell you because it was  _ so _ embarrassing. But it's all good!” She dismisses Adora with a wave of her hand. “Nothing to worry about.” 

“Okay, yeah. Nothing to worry about.” Adora whispers, but Catra is already on her way to the register, and she has no choice but to store this moment for sometime else. It bugs her, but this is their first date.  _ Remember what Perfuma said, Adora. You won't be able to repeat this one.  _

Catra comes back with the greasiest pepperoni pizza she's ever seen. It looks so disgustingly good it's almost surreal; the exact same pizza she remembers from her childhood days and definitely bad for her cholesterol.  _ Amazing _ . They dig in and only then does she realize how hungry she was. Competing against Catra—it all ended up in a tie—depleted her of all forms of energy, leaving her body demanding food. Her fingers are sticky from the probably too-old cheese but it tastes  _ so _ good it should be illegal; sent to jail for being as terrible as it is delicious. She chomps down her third slice, barely sipping from her diet coke, and a drop of grease starts to trickle down her chin. Right before she can grab a napkin Catra is already there to swipe her thumb across Adora´s skin, and the redness she feels rise to her ears does not compare to what happens  _ next _ —Catra licking the grease away from her own fingers, never breaking eye contact. She does  _ that _ , and Adora can't stand it. 

Can't stand it for,  _ uh _ . Reasons. 

Catra has the nerve to smirk. 

“I hate you,” Adora seethes, but it's  _ weak _ and she  _ so _ doesn't mean it. 

Adora had eyed a chocolate fudge brownie with ice cream—a different level of gross—when they´d first come in. However, her belly is so full she could burst any minute, and the idea of shoving something that sugary down her throat doesn't actually sound that appealing, not now. So they call it a night. 

“Shall I take you to the exit, madam?” Catra stands up and offers her arm to Adora.

This time, however, Adora takes the initiative and laces her fingers with Catra´s, leading them to the way out. As much as she tries to be tough it's moments like these—soft, careful touching—that make Catra melt into a puddle of “I'm not meeting your eyes” shyness. She grunts, much to Adora´s glee. They walk towards the exit in perfect silence, trying to match their steps and swinging their arms between them. There´s the telltale tugging in her chest, the trademark signature of the past days of mulling over the uncharted territory that are her feelings for Catra. But now she's sure. 

They reach the parking lot, now empty. Only insane parents would  _ dare _ stay with their children in a neon themed, sugar-supplier arcade past ten pm on a Thursday, but because  _ they're _ college students they can do whatever they want. Despite the thin fabric of her blouse, the cold still doesn't even begin to bother Adora. Catra, however, lets go of her hand to wrap her arms around herself, shivering because of the exposed skin. Adora shakes her head. 

“Here,” She says, taking out the cotton sweater she'd shoved in her bag before Catra picked her up. “You don't get to freeze on me right now, okay? Where would I hide the body?” 

Catra chuckles at that, but doesn't say anything. She's too busy holding on to whatever is left from the sweet, sweet heat from inside. She huddles closer to Adora, who slides the sweater down her head and hugs her tighter. This close, she can smell sweat and cinnamon sticking to Catra´s skin; can see and count the freckles on the bridge of her nose and admire her perfect eyelashes. Funny, she would have expected her heart to go crazy, but surprisingly it beats calm and steady in her ribcage as she drops her gaze from Catra´s gold-speckled eyes to the curve of her lips and her fingers curl over the fabric of the sweater, dragging her best friend  _ even _ closer. It feels completely, absolutely natural, the only possible outcome—

It is so unexpectedly  _ cliché _ it ends up being hilarious—the downpour. Out of  _ nowhere _ it simply starts raining like crazy, forcing them apart if only to erupt in loud, unabashed laughter. Curls stick to Catra´s face, and right there, underneath the shitty neon lighting; with a madman´s grin, eyes alight, water droplets trickling down her face, Adora feels herself fall for her best friend all over. Feels the same sort of magic Perfuma had told her about. 

“Race you to the motorcycle?” Catra dares her, ready to sprint. 

“Bet.”

**Author's Note:**

> you guys may not understand the scar part, because that´s from the au, so i hope that after reading this you might want to check it out !!! @sapphicarmen
> 
> also i love talking to moots so follow me for some lame ass content, bc im gay.


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